


Black-Out

by TalkingGrape



Category: 6 Underground (2019)
Genre: Billy whump, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm, Unreliable Narrator, literal torture i shit you not, one being an absolute dad, the first 3/4 of the fic is hurt/no comfort ngl, this started as a whump black-out bingo and became a problem, tw: most things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24975175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalkingGrape/pseuds/TalkingGrape
Summary: Billy has a really rough couple of days/weeks/months.
Comments: 103
Kudos: 169





	1. Anyone Remember How Fucked Up Marley And Me Was?

One should’ve seen it coming, in all honesty. Things were going too smoothly, and things never go smoothly. It should’ve been a dead giveaway. Never before had a plan gone without a hitch. Something always went wrong, be it big or small, a watch falling out a sync, a stray bullet hitting one of the team, Six… Just- what happened to Six. One should have _known_. 

But he didn’t know. None of them did. They were all too high on their success, patting themselves on the back before the mission was even fully complete, and that’s the second place where One fucked up. He should’ve still been checking in on everyone, but Two and Five were already with him at the meetup and Three was hollering over the comms so loudly, clearly having the time of his life driving to their location once he was finally free from the men tailing him with their guns. The chatter was live enough that One figured he would’ve heard if something went tits up before it was too late. 

And that’s the third place he fucked up. Because if you can already hear something go wrong, isn’t it already too late to stop it? 

It was too late when he heard the panting, desperate breaths hidden behind Three and Seven’s banter. Too late when he realized that Four hadn’t said anything snarky in a while. Too late when he snapped at everyone to shut the fuck up and clear the comms. 

“Four, I need a status report.” More panting in response, a distant gunshot followed by muttered cursing. “Four, come on, you need to tell me if it’s worth backtracking for your ass or not.” 

There’s a moment where there’s no sound at all, where Four isn’t even trying to contact them anymore and One is afraid he’s trying to let them leave him like he did in Hong Kong, but then the panting is back along with a broken sentence. “‘M fine. Tryin’ to-” There’s another gunshot and the comms go to static for a moment. “Lose a few stubborn tails.” More gunfire. Shouting. Four letting out a string of curses in between gasped breaths. 

“A few? How many is a few?” One asks, getting curious glances from Two and Five. Seven arrives at the rendezvous before he gets an answer, his face looking as pinched and stressed as One feels as he waits for a break in the sounds of Four running for his life for an update.

Three arrives in a beat to hell Jeep before they hear anything back from Four, and One is tempted to strangle the man for having the audacity to drive a vehicle that makes noise when he is trying desperately to listen for his teammate over the comms. 

One is about to repeat the question when he hears gunshots again, this time both over the comms and in the distance. Four is getting closer to them. “Get ready guys, sounds like Four’s bringing the party to us.” The team circles around One in response, all of them raising up their weapons and aiming in the direction the shots sounded from as One speaks into the comms again. “Alright, we’re ready for you, just come to us and we’ll shake those bastards for you. Just tell us how many to expect.” 

More gunshots, and One is seriously doubting that Four managed to evade every single shot that’s been aimed at him so far. In fact, he’s starting to seriously doubt that Four is even actually still moving. Is he even conscious? When was the last time he answered a question?

One is moments away from mobilizing the team for a round of search and rescue when Four’s voice cuts across the comms, strained and punctuated by gasping breaths. “Six. I think. Give or take a few.” There’s a strangled gasp followed by a dull thud that sounds like Four fucking up a maneouver, and One wonders if they should go in and rescue the poor kid anyways. Unlike the rest of the group, Four has to literally run for his life while the rest of them get heavy armor and guns and cars. 

Four makes the decision for One whenever he makes a sudden choking sound followed by a high pitched whine that definitely indicated that he hurt something or pulled something or, fuck, maybe even got shot. “That’s it, kid, we’re coming for ya.” 

The team around him seems to be a step ahead of him, already moving as One gestures for them to follow his lead. They barely step out of the safety of their rendezvous point, reentering the hectic streets as police and thugs alike sweep the area looking for signs of the ghosts while civilians run for their lives, when Four’s voice forces them all still. “No don’t-” 

There’s a deafening crack and then the comms cut out there, a brief moment of static before going silent once more. The silence feels like ice melting down everyone’s backs, forcing a shiver down One’s spine and making his hands go numb.

As much as it hurts him, One motions for them to retreat safely back into the alley they had been hiding in. He can’t have them blindly searching the city for someone who’s already dead. “Four, don’t what? We need to know what not to do so we can avoid doing it, buddy.” 

“Last time you called him that, we all thought he was going to die.” One can feel the pained looks directed at him before he even sees them, and turning to see Seven with a comforting arm around a tearful Five only drives it home more. They’re right. One never calls anyone anything other than their numbers. Everyone knows it. Not even nicknames. He’s called Four buddy once before, only once. Back on the yacht in Turgistan. When the kid was pleading for his life. When One wasn’t sure if he would make it in time. 

The comms are still silent. 

“Kid?” Nothing. 

“That’s it, we have to go after him.” Seven, naturally, is the first to speak up, breaking the heartwrenching silence and setting everyone into a flurry of activity. 

“But didn’t he just say not to?” Three is the next to speak, playing Devil’s advocate much to everyone’s annoyance. 

Two, the absolute goddess that she is, checks Three in the side with her gun, glaring at him. “That boy has been self sacrificial since day one, and you expect us to follow his orders?”

Nodding along, Five joins in on the pile, clearly protective over Four since she had been the one to fix him up after so many injuries and near death experiences. “Not to mention that he could’ve been saying that to someone other than us, like possibly the person responsible for his comms going out?” 

Throughout the conversation, One doesn’t move, just staring dumbly at his team as they argue amongst themselves over Four like he’s even still alive. “It doesn’t matter. His comms are cut, we have no way of finding him _if_ he’s even still alive, and we need to be out of this city, like, twenty minutes ago.” 

More silence. One is pretty sure this is the spot where a snarky quip is supposed to go, courtesy of one busted up blond in joggers with a thing or two to say about a thing or two because he almost died on a mission _again._

But this time it wasn’t an almost. 

Pushing past the group, one climbs into the scrap-metal jeep that Three brought to them as their getaway car, not leaving room for argument. 

Surprisingly enough, Seven is the next to climb in after him. Unsurprisingly, it’s just to nag him about going back for Four. “C’mon, man. You know this isn’t right. The kid’s one hell of a fighter, he’s still out there waiting for us. We can’t just leave.” 

And One feels ice creep up inside his lungs and pool in the back of his throat. “We won’t find him.” And as much as One wants to believe Seven, as much as he wants to tear through the streets to find the kid he accidentally let weasel into the group he began to think of as a ~~family~~ team, he knows how unlikely it is. He knows the chances of losing more than just Four are too high. “We can’t- we can’t risk it.” 

One glances out the cracked window of the jeep, and Seven’s gaze follows his line of sight. He can tell it clicks in that instant, that Seven _gets it._ That Four is important, but not more important than anyone else on the team. Not important enough to lose another person. One can’t take that. Not tonight. He’s sure no one else can either. 

So Seven gets out of the jeep, and One lets his eyes close even though they’re not out of danger yet. He doesn’t listen to what gets said, but a moment later the jeep is filling up with upset Ghosts. He pretends not to hear Five’s sniffles or Two’s silent curses. He pretends like he doesn’t want to force Three to turn the goddamn car around until eventually, he convinces himself of it too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i update sundays/mondays depending on if im up at midnight or not lmao. heres some trash.


	2. Big Brother's House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if yall really thought this wasnt gonna be 100% billy-centric and from billy's pov then idk how to help you

Billy wakes up in a white room. His head is killing him, the lights are too bright, and the color offends his senses, but he can’t seem to escape it. Everywhere he looks is white, white, more white. The floors are a pristine white tile, the ceiling is a smooth white with indents for the lighting fixtures that bare down on him relentlessly. The walls are whiter than white. 

So his kidnappers don’t really care for decoration. Noted. 

More importantly, his kidnappers do seem to care about his comfort. Instead of being just dumped on the floor of the room, Billy notes that he’s not only in a rather comfortable bed, but he’s tucked in. Which is… creepy. Very creepy. Not as creepy as the fact that his clothes have been changed, though. 

His clothes and the sheets of the bed are also white. 

If they’re trying to piss him off with the boring as fuck color scheme, it’s definitely working. And he definitely wants to have a fucking word with the goddamn creep who changed his dinosaur-print pants to fucking tighty-whiteys. He feels… diddled. Someone even had the audacity to change his socks. Into fresh socks. 

Scoffing, Billy stands up from the bed, trying to play off the wave of dizziness that hits him. His hand instinctively goes up to the side of his head, just by his ear where he’d been hit. He feels soft gauze covering the area where there should be a fair amount of blood. It’s… confusing. Billy can’t find a reasonable explanation behind why someone would go through all this trouble to make him so safe and comfortable. 

Glancing around, he can’t pinpoint an exact area where there might be a camera, but he’s not dumb enough to assume that means there isn’t one. Someone is watching him. “So, what the fuck are you playin’ at here? Knockin’ me out cold, getting’ me all cozy in the presidential suite and then what? Are we playing house? What’s with the game of dress up?” 

He wasn’t expecting to get an answer right away, so he’s not surprised when he’s greeted with nothing but silence. He keeps his stance in the center of the room, slowly spinning in a circle as he scans his surroundings. Nothing jumps out at him. Just an endless expanse of white. It starts to look like the room has no walls and just goes on forever if he stares hard enough. It trips him out. 

It takes longer than he’d like to figure out where the door is. It’s skillfully fitted tightly into the wall, made of the same material, and has no handle or knob. It’s not a door made for easy access to the other side. At least not for Billy. 

“Alright, fuckers. You’ve got me pinned here. So whattya want from me?” He flings his arms out to the sides, still glancing around the room in search for the camera. “C’mon, I don’t have all damn day.” 

Silence. 

Billy sucks on his teeth, letting his arms fall flat to his sides. “Alright. Alright. Waiting game. I got it. You’ll come to me, then.” He nods, going back to the bed. He’s still tired anyways. 

He really wants nothing more than to fall onto the bed, the side of his head is still thrumming in time with his pulse and he figures with his dizziness he might have a concussion. He’ll have to have Amelia check it out once he gets out of this shit hole. But he can’t let himself relax until he’s searched over every inch of the room. He’s already got the three empty corners and the door checked off, now all that’s left is the bed.

It doesn’t take long to turn over the whole thing, revealing a lot of white linen and disappointment. Nothing tucked away, no notes, no clues mistakenly left behind by whoever set this shithole up. Just a mattress and some sheets and some pillows with nothing interesting or remarkable about them. He’s half annoyed, half relieved. If he had found something, he’d probably have to do something about it. Now, however, he can just fall onto the haphazardly remade bed and let his eyes fall shut once more. 

Billy wakes up naturally. Nothing had interrupted his sleep the entire time he was out. For however long that was. He had expected to be rudely awakened by someone asking him about the Ghosts or the whereabouts of some expensive item he’d pawned years back, but nothing. The only thing he can pinpoint as the reason for his current waking status is the uncomfortable pinch of hunger in his stomach, the quiet growl almost unreasonably loud in the silent room. 

“So is that your game?” He asks the empty room, sure that he’s being watched like a bug under a magnifying glass. “Just make me comfortable until I starve to death, or what? C’mon, I’m not too proud to admit ‘M not the smartest guy around. I’ve got less than no idea what you want with me. I can’t give you what you want unless you ask for it.” And even then, Billy still won’t give it up. But it’s nice to know what he’s not giving up. 

The only answer his little outburst gets is more silence. 

It’s not very good for his blood pressure. He shoots up off the bed, glaring at the ceiling like he’s addressing an angry god. He stumbles as his vision goes white for his efforts, almost falling to his knees as he catches himself at the last second. The embarrassment of it all only adds to his annoyance, which just translates into pure rage at this point. He jabs an accusing finger at a random light fixture while shouting random obscenities at it, deciding that he’s got, like, a 25% chance of guessing which one would have the camera in it. Although it doesn’t make much sense for a camera to be in a light. It wouldn’t record anything but glare. 

It may not be a very good idea to stand in a white room alone and scream at the lights, but it is very cathartic. At least Billy feels a little better afterwards, if not a little lightheaded. He’s not sure when he last ate. He’s not even sure how long he’s been out for or how long he’s been missing. A few hours? A day? He has no clue, and no way to even guess. There’s no windows in his little white box, just white walls and white lights and a white plate with white food and- when did that get there?

There was no sound that had accompanied the food drop, although, if there was Billy was either asleep for it or talking through it. He’s starting to figure out that maybe the white is more of a conscious decision than a convenience thing if even his food is white, and he’s not sure if that fact should make him nervous or not, but something in the pit of his stomach twists up just a little bit at the realization. 

Hesitantly, Billy approaches the plate like it might stand up and bite him if he moves too quickly. It’s accompanied by a white, reusable plastic water bottle and a fucking plastic spork, and when he lifts the plate he finds a change of bandages for his head underneath it. 

So, these freaks really mean to take care of him while he’s here. And not in, like, the mafia sense of taking care of someone. Like honest to goodness, taking genuine care of him. Feeding him, clothing him, dressing his injuries. 

But everything is just. White. 

Something isn’t adding up, and Billy isn’t good enough at math to figure out where the equation is going wrong. 

He tells himself he’s just hurt, hungry, and exhausted and that he’ll think about it after he’s eaten and changed his bandages. With that in mind, he takes the plate, bottle, and bandages to his bed, sitting down and eyeing up the food hesitantly. 

Reasonably, he knows that it would be fucking stupid if the food was poisoned, but a part of him is still nervous about the possibility. That, and plain white rice isn’t the most appetizing food in the world. Still, Billy is hungry enough that he can’t afford to be too picky, and eventually he gives in and takes a bite. 

It tastes like bland fucking plain white rice and it’s the best damn thing he’s tasted all year. 

He eats everything on his plate, only stopping between bites to take greedy gulps of water until the contents of his bottle are drained. His food and water are gone too soon, and he’s full but still thirsty, his tongue too dry in his mouth. Still, yelling at the ceiling hasn’t gotten him anything so far, so it’s not exactly like he can ask for a refill. 

Just as he turns his attention to the alcohol wipes and bandages spread before him, the door on the wall swings open silently. He wouldn’t have even noticed it if it weren’t for the fact that there’s only two things in the room aside from him, and one of them is the door. 

Billy isn’t sure if he should be scared or leaping at the chance to possibly escape. He settles for a healthy mix of both, cautiously rising from his spot on the bed and slowly approaching the door with the full expectancy to be disappointed with what’s on the other side. He’s not disappointed. Well, he is, but he was expecting to be disappointed, so in that sense, he’s not disappointed. 

Point is, all the door opens up to is a bathroom. There’s a sink with a mirror above it, a toilet, and a bathtub. Interesting enough, no shower. Billy isn’t sure why that’s important, or why that choice was made, surely a tub is more luxurious than a shower, but then again, at this point not much is making sense about this fucking place.

The first thing Billy does upon making this discovery is grab the water bottle and refill it in the sink. Second order of business is to grab the bandages and get to work assessing and redressing the hit to the side of his head. 

Carefully, he peels off the bandage that’s currently stuck to the side of his face, glancing at it to see a nasty brown-red patch of dried blood on it. Honestly, seeing the spot of color on the white bandage in Billy’s pale hand where he stands in this white room? It’s a fucking breath of fresh air, and he’s almost tempted to keep it like a piece of art and hang it up on the wall. But that’s fucking insane, so he crumples up the bandage, tossing it to the side as he observes himself in the mirror. 

The hit to his head left behind a nasty looking bump, a large purple bruise takes up residence on the side of his face, spreading from his temple down to his cheek and onto his jaw. The part of his face that took the brunt of the hit, right by his ear, is split open and hurts like hell to touch. Billy grits his teeth, wipes the cut with the provided alcohol wipes, and redresses the wound. 

The moment Billy grabs his trash and begins looking for the bin, an opening (once again silently) appears in the wall, obviously a trash chute. If Billy had a suspicion that he was being watched before, he’s positive now. He drops the dirty gauze and the rest of his trash down the chute, but the gap in the wall doesn’t shut. After a few minutes of confusion, eventually Billy gets the idea, grabbing his plate and dropping that down as well. The gap shuts. 

If these sick fucks think that Billy is bathing or taking a piss while they’re watching, they have another thing coming. Billy steps back into the bedroom and the bathroom door shuts behind him. 

Looking to the ceiling once more, because where the fuck else would an all-seeing eye be? Billy addresses the room. “So, what? You’ve fed me, gave me a piss break, put a band-aid on my ouchie. Gonna come read me a bedtime story now?” As expected, there’s no answer. 

With nothing better to do, Billy crawls back into bed, staring absently at the white ceiling and letting his thoughts wander to the Ghosts. 

He doesn’t remember much about what happened. He knows they were on a mission, and he knows he never made it to the meetup spot, but he doesn’t know if anyone tried to come for him or if they even know he’s alive. He hopes they think he’s alive. He hopes they’re looking for him. 

But god does he know it’s unlikely. Just like Hong Kong, he’s going to have to go 90% so they can take him the last ten. If he can even get out of here at all. For fuck’s sake, the only door he’s managed to find so far led to a goddamn bathroom. The food appears magically. Big brother is always watching. As far as he can tell, he’s fucked. Comfortably fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my only goal for this fic is to reach maximum ;-; so that at the end i can reach maximum uwu
> 
> lmk what yall think so far, comments make me write faster <3


	3. Billy From Brazzers.com

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy's gonna get fuckin' jacked and punch his way outta this hell.

Reasonably, Billy knows that sleeping with a head injury and possible (probable) concussion isn’t smart, but what the fuck else is he supposed to do in a pure white room with nothing else but his dick for entertainment? And no, he’s not actually considering jerking off, not when some unknown fucking creeps are watching. He’s not that desperate for something to do. He’s still got a few items on his ‘Bored to Literal Death’ checklist before he gets to that. And death is one of the things that comes before it. 

After he wakes up from a disconcerting and confusing nap, Billy makes his rounds around the room again. He has even less idea of what time it is now. He’s slept a total of three times in this sensory deprivation hell, and only eaten once. He has no idea what any of that means. All he knows is that he went missing on a Thursday, and now it’s probably not still Thursday. 

He drags his hand along the smooth wall, feeling for creases or spots where a door might be. He passes over the bathroom door, but that’s all he finds. It frustrates him to no fucking end. 

He heads back over to where he remembers his food being left and sits in that spot, staring at the wall like it might give him an answer. Once again, he reaches out like a blind man, feeling the wall until he finds something, anything. His fingernails find small slits in the wall indicating another tiny door, like this part of the wall slides open for them to send his food through. 

So, that’s one mystery down. He knows how his food gets in here. But how did _he_ get in here? 

Staring up, Billy squints against the harsh lighting of the room. “Did you fucking freaks lower me in from the ceiling or some shit?” He says it more to himself than to whoever he thinks is listening, well aware of how stupid it sounds. But at this point, it’s starting to sound reasonable, because this room has no fucking _doors._

Then, just to see if it works, Billy pushes on the bathroom door. Funnily enough, it opens. So, they don’t plan to force him to piss himself at any point. Cross weird fetish community off his list of possible kidnappers. Actually, don’t yet. This is still too fucking weird. 

Just to see what the fuck will happen, Billy turns on the bathtub. It runs quietly, the water hitting the sloped side of the tub and trickling into the basin silently. “Does nothing in this fucking place make noise?” He appreciates these people’s need for peace and quiet, but Billy just doesn’t work that way. He has ADHD, he’s made to be loud, bouncing off the walls. If five things aren’t happening at once he’s restless, trying to make them happen. Here, though, nothing is happening. It makes his skin itch, like something is burrowing deep into the base of his skull and taunting him because no matter how much he scratches he can’t reach it. 

He turns on the sink next. It too, runs silently. He flushes the goddamn toilet and the goddamn thing isn’t louder than a whisper. “Jesus fucking CHRIST.” The yell cuts through the silence uncomfortably, echoing through the room before leaving it desolate once again. 

Turning off the faucets, Billy leaves the bathroom, the door silently (always silently) shutting behind him. He stands in the middle of the room once more, hands fidgeting at his sides for a moment as he considers his options. 

His options being, of course, whether he wants to die of old age, or if he just wants to refuse to eat and starve himself before he goes insane in this fucking white room. 

“You know, I never thought torture would seem like a fun time, but with how fucking bored out of my mind I am right now, it’s starting to seem like a good idea to me.” He doesn’t look up at the ceiling this time, those fuckers know who he’s talking to. 

The quiet white room is all he gets in response. 

“Yeah, fuck you guys too.” 

And then, because Billy has nothing better to do, he starts to do push-ups, counting them out loud to fill the silence. He does them until his face is bright red, sweat soaking through the gauze on his face and turning his hair into a mess of damp curls. His shirt is disgusting and he lost count of how many push-ups he actually got in, but it was over sixty, so he’s proud of that. He flops over onto his back, staring at the ceiling as he idly picks at the hem of his shirt, trying to catch his breath.

“This must be why prisoners are all so fucking jacked.” They just have nothing better to do. Maybe that’s what Billy will spend his time doing, just getting so fucking ripped that he can punch his way through the walls and escape without the help that may or may not (but most likely not) be on the way for him. He laughs at the thought, taking one last deep breath before he sits up. 

He almost misses the change of clothes on the floor, the white material blending in with the white room. It makes his skin crawl, knowing how close other people are to him, but how they can move around him without him even noticing. “Yeah, you sick fucks would like to watch me strip, wouldn’t you?” The bathroom door swishes open in answer and Billy isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or puke. 

“Fuck you.” He lays back on the floor, daring someone to come in and force him to move. 

Surprisingly, or maybe not at all surprisingly, no one comes in. Billy’s not sure how long he lays there, but it’s long enough for his sweat to dry and for his back to start aching like hell, and no one enters. At least, not that he sees or hears. For all he knows, someone could’ve come in and rearranged the damn place and he probably wouldn’t have noticed. 

So far ninjas are on the top of his list of people who he thinks might have abducted him. 

Sitting up with a groan, Billy glances around, half expecting the room to have changed somehow. A white pile of clothes in a white room greets him. “Fucking hell.” He stands up, stretching his aching muscles and half contemplating getting a cold bath to avoid being achy the next day. 

“Is there anyway I can convince you guys to look away while I've got my dick out, or is that too optimistic?” He asks the empty room, knowing the answer before he gets it. Silence. He nods to himself, hunting down his water bottle and drinking greedily until it’s empty, returning to the bathroom to refill it. He half expects the door to shut on him and trap him inside, he gets that kind of creepy vibe from this place. It doesn’t happen, though, and he’s grateful. Not enough to reward them with a view of his adonis bod, though. 

With his arms feeling like jell-o and a recent nap under his belt, Billy doesn’t have much left to occupy his time with. He’s feeling restless, and finds himself just pacing like a madman, humming off-key tunes to fill the silence of the room. 

He feels like he’s officially gone insane and it’s only been… well he doesn’t know, really. Probably not long. He’s only eaten once. He’s not sure if he’s being fed daily or every few hours or maybe just whenever he’s awake or when he complains about being hungry. He doesn’t know how this works. He doesn’t even know what _this_ is. He’s just in a box. A white, weird fucking box with eyes in the walls that he can’t see, but fuck if they can’t see him. He feels his skin crawl once more, with enough force that he finds himself scratching idly at his arm. “This is bullshit.” 

He stops pacing, glaring at the bathroom door. “This is such bullshit.” 

And then he starts pacing again, still too full of energy to sit still. “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, bull- holy fuck I sound like I’m going fucking mad.” And maybe he is. Maybe it’s that easy to break him, just leave him alone with himself for a little bit and he’ll just tear himself apart. Because Billy’s always been good at that, ever since day one. No one can get under his skin quite like himself because he’s the poor son of a bitch that has to exist inside it all the damn time. 

“No, no, no, no, I refuse to self-reflect. That’s some pussy shit on a level of pathetic I haven’t reached yet today.” Maybe tomorrow, whenever that is. But not today. Billy still has his pride. 

He paces until his feet start to hurt from the constant motion, trying not to let his mind wander in any unsavory direction. He ends up counting the time out loud to himself. He’s pretty sure that’s a shit way to pass the time, making himself constantly aware of it, but at the very least it’s filling the silence and keeping him from losing anymore of his shit. 

His feet hurt, his arms are sore, and, to make matters worse, all the water he drank is finally catching up to him. He really, _really_ doesn’t want to end up on a weird fetish site. He crosses his arms, sitting down on the floor once more since his legs have had enough activity for now, and just glares at the bathroom like it’s somehow the reason he’s even in this situation to begin with. 

“I fucking hate this.” Again, talking to no one. He’s not sure if talking out loud is his attempt at keeping himself sane, or if all it’s doing is making him crazier by the minute. “If this shit ends up on the internet, I better at least get some of the goddamn royalties.” 

Because, honestly the only thing worse than pissing in front of live cameras is pissing in his pants in front of live cameras, and he’s not about to fucking do that. So he gets off his arse, goes to the bathroom and gets it over with, trying to cover himself as much as he can without, like, accidentally pissing on himself. 

Once that whole ordeal is over with, Billy finds himself doing more exercises, just to pass the goddamn time again. Sit-ups, squats, planking. Whatever he can think of, he does it until his shirt is soaked through and he’s chugged two more bottles of water. 

At some point, another plate of food shows up, getting pushed awkwardly into the pile of clothes on the floor. And Billy, having burnt hundreds of calories out of boredom, eagerly scarfs down his plate of white rice. Another change of bandages has arrived as well, and Billy is more than happy to remove his current sweat soaked bandage and replace it with a fresh, clean one. He keeps his clothes on, though, refusing to strip for the cameras. He throws everything away, including the change of clothes on the floor before throwing himself onto the bed, finally exhausted enough to get some rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> either end my suffering or billys idc which


	4. 0/5 Stars, Will Not Be Staying Here Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which i reveal a kind of disturbing headcanon that i have for billy and also billy takes up fingerpainting

As expected, Billy’s muscles are fucking pissed at him when he wakes up. There’s no way in hell he’ll get away with just doing push-ups until he falls asleep for a second day in a row, not whenever his arms feel like every single nerve-ending has been petrified. Maybe he should’ve sucked it up and gotten a nice cold bath… 

Too late now, though. Now, he’s paying the price for his stupidity. Now he’s stuck with even less options than he had the day before, or at least, before he went to sleep. He’s not sure how long he was out. Long enough for his entire body to lock up on him at least. 

With a pained groan, Billy drags himself out of bed. He uses the bathroom, and finds a white toothbrush has magically appeared on the sink at some point. He’s past the point of questioning it, he just brushes his teeth like a good prisoner and eats his breakfast of white rice when it’s delivered to him and tries not to think about how there always seems to be someone in the room with him just out of his line of sight. 

He tries to take his sweet fucking time with his morning(?) routine, just wasting time until… something, anything happens. After breakfast(?) he stretches his sore muscles as much as he can stand to, trying to limber up enough in the hopes to get at least a lighter workout in. He’s starting to figure out that he’s not gonna be able to eat anything other than white rice, so burning too many calories is going to hurt more than help him, but he’s desperate enough to waste time right now that he’s willing to make that sacrifice. 

Billy hardly breaks a goddamn sweat, although he kind of finds that to be a relief. Less creepy invisible people pushing him to let them watch him get a bath that way. 

He finds himself lying in bed staring up at the ceiling not long after his poor excuse of a workout. There’s not even any tiles or cracks for him to count, nothing to keep him occupied but his own thoughts. He closes his eyes, heaves a sigh of frustration, and, against his better judgement, lets his thoughts drift. 

Almost immediately his mind goes back to the Ghosts. He misses them. Like, a lot. He’s sure that by now they probably think he’s dead, unless they have a solid lead on where he’s been taken to. He doubts that they do. These people are good. Clean. Professional. It’s terrifying in its own right. 

He wonders if the Ghosts are feeling his loss like they felt Six’s. If they had his funeral yet, or if they even bothered with it since there’s no body to be dumped at sea. He wonders if the funeral would’ve been different this time since they’re closer than they were when Six- 

God, _Six._ Billy still doesn’t know what his name was. He’d meant to ask One, since everyone else already knows each other’s names by now, but One is still holding tight to his name just being a number, so Billy didn’t put much stock in the hopes that One would share that information with him. And now he’ll never know. 

No one had mentioned it when Billy had been particularly crushed for much longer than everyone else over the loss of the driver, and he still can’t decide if he’s thankful or bitter over that. He is thankful, however, for the fact that he one day woke up to a duffel bag of Six’s belongings on the doorstep of his trailer. He’s definitely thankful that no one mentioned it when he started casually wearing one of Six’s rings on his right ring finger. God he missed that snarky Italian with his fucking stupid fear of hights yet his adrenaline junkie tendancies and his tan skin and the fact that he was always smiling.

Billy misses everyone else too, but at least he knows that somewhere out there, they’re all alive. They get to go back to base every night and eat whatever Blaine cooked for dinner and watch whatever stupid old movie One picked out and pretend like it isn’t getting on their nerves that Camille and Javier are making out the whole time like a couple of horny teens even though Amelia and One are obviously making eyes at each other like they want to do the same fucking thing. 

Something warm and wet leaks out the corner of his eye and Billy curses under his breath, wiping at his face madly. This is why he can’t be left alone with himself. Because he _thinks_. 

He thinks about the Ghosts and if they miss him and what if they’re already finding an Eight, because it only took a few days for One to replace Six (not that he’s bitter or anything), and he thinks about how much it all stings. He knew since day one what it would be like with the Ghosts, hell, his first introduction to One was the man pretending to kill him Bond Villain style. Still, he told himself it would be different than his old crew. He told himself that even after he let himself be left for dead in Hong Kong like a fucking idiot. 

He should’ve known better than to let himself feel like he mattered. 

All he ever did for the team was mouth off and run fast, two things that almost anyone with two legs and a mouth could do. He’s the most replaceable on the team out of anyone, the most expendable. Even if the Ghosts have reason to believe he’s alive, he wouldn’t blame them for calling the search and just getting an Eight. In fact, he _knows_ that’s what they would do. Maybe Javi and Blaine would argue for a while, but in the end it’s not worth the risk when there’s so many people out there with more talent and less damage than him. 

No one is coming for him. 

He takes a deep, shaky breath, a hot painful lump forming in his throat that he tries to swallow down. 

No one is coming for him.

He stands up, the gravity sending unshed tears town his cheeks in even streaks, but he blinks them away like they’re nothing, paying them no mind. 

No one is coming for him. 

He’s trapped here. He doesn’t know for how long, but clearly they want him alive for a while. Suffering in silence in this white room while the world continues on without him, because no one. Is coming. For him. 

He mindlessly makes his way into the bathroom, half of his mind is forming some pathetic semblance of a plan while the other half is sitting on a rooftop in Florence making fun of Six for his fear of heights even while he puts a reassuring arm around the other to help him feel safe. He faces the mirror, looking at his own pale skin and platinum hair, blending into the white walls of the room and he can’t stand it anymore. He needs to get out, and he can’t wait for a rescue that’s never going to show. 

Drawing a fist back, Billy pours all his thoughts, his hurt, his rage, his fear into his muscles, clenching his fist tight and letting it swing forward. There’s a resounding crack that shakes his core, his teeth clack together harshly and force his eyes crossed for a moment in pure confusion, because that’s not the sound a broken mirror makes? He’s hit almost instantly with a shockwave of pain radiating from his knuckles up to his shoulder, hot and fierce like a bolt of lightning that forces a strangled cry out of his mouth. 

The mirror is still in one piece and Billy, honestly, should be used to disappointment at this point.

His entire body is vibrating in place, his ears ringing for a moment as he stands there in shock, staring stupidly at the fully intact mirror. He feels his own heart stop beating for a fraction of a second, his entire body going entirely, dangerously numb. 

And then he fucking screams. 

It’s a sound brought on by pure rage and emotional agony, days of frustration and confusion bubbling up and pouring out of him. He’s homesick for a place he could never even call home, he misses someone that was never even his, and he’s so fucking sick of eating _plain white fucking rice_. He reels his fist back once more, swinging at the mirror with just as much force as the previous hit, only this time when it doesn’t work, he simply goes in for another hit. Then another. And another. And another. 

His knuckles creak and crackle, protesting the abuse, his skin splits and bleeds, leaving red smears all over the mirror. No matter what he does, how hard he hits, his fist just bounces back at him. His wrist hurts like hell, his palm is split from his fingernails pressing into his skin, and still he keeps trying, his throat going raw from yelling and rampaging like a fucking psycho. 

He goes until he’s too out of breath to continue. His fingers tingle like pins and needles, and his entire wrist is already a nasty shade of red and swollen twice the size of his other one. He heaves a huge sigh, a drop of blood trailing down his middle finger and landing on the pristine white floor. 

It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

Something in him just… just _snaps_ at the sight. Worse than punching the mirror. He picks at the busted skin on his knuckles, blood pooling around his fingertips as he paces from the bathroom into the bedroom and drops of red follow him. It hurts, it hurts a lot. The skin burns and stings as he picks at it, ripping it open and tearing away at the ink of his tattoo. But he can’t stop. He can’t stop because he’s doing something, he’s solving at least one of his fucking problems and he’ll be fucking damned if a little bit of pain stops him. 

He runs around the room like a madman, leaving bloody hand prints and smears and even writing or drawing things in his own blood from time to time. He writes down numbers, one through seven, obviously. He draws a dog (it’s Wally), he steps in the trail of blood, leaving footprints wherever he goes, and it’s not white, it’s red and it’s fading to an ugly brown that’s Billy’s new favorite color in the entire world. 

By the time Billy comes to his senses, his hand is fucking butchered. The skin around his knuckles is picked off and peeling away completely, some of it is caught under the fingernails of his other hands and that thought makes his stomach crawl. His tattoos are almost completely missing, and he’s managed to cut open his palm with his fingernails and work the wounds open until they’re bleeding freely even now. The pain is dull and distant compared to the ache in his wrist, knuckles, and shoulder, but it’s still apparent enough that Billy knows he fucked up. Hell, he can tell he fucked up just by looking at the goddamn thing. 

He looks around the room like he’s seeing it for the first time, looking at the brownish smudges of ‘art’ and handprints spattered everywhere and he feels his stomach turn. “Least it’s not white.” He nods to himself, sitting down on his bed and tearing into one of the sheets to be used as a wrap for his hand. “God, I’ve really hit rock bottom, haven’t I?” 

Carefully, Billy wraps up his hand and wrist, using almost half the entire bed sheet in the process. Mostly to stop the bleeding. Partially to thickly wrap his wrist to keep from moving it too much. 

A bone-deep exhaustion hits Billy in that moment. The kind of tired that hits someone who’s been struggling to stay alive with no purpose for far too long and is just realizing it. That raw, depressed kind of exhaustion that creeps up the spine and locks limbs into place. His joints ache and there’s a constant, harsh pulse behind Billy’s eyes that makes him wish (not for the first time) that he could turn off the lights in this goddamn room. He lays down, heaving a heavy, exhausted sigh that carries more weight than any nineteen year old should ever have to, and tries to get some fucking sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uploads are moved to wednesdays because this fic is kinda taking a back seat to another one im writing rn


	5. Rubber Ducky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> its bath time lads

Sleep clings to Billy with an unforgiving determination, pulling him back under anytime he thinks he’s finally broken the surface. He’s drowning in blankets, the bed he’s in is an ocean of fabric and white and he never learned how to swim. 

He wakes up gradually, fighting for every ounce of lucidity that comes to him. There’s a heavy weight on his chest that feels like panic and fear as he forces himself to sit up in bed, blinking open his eyes against the overbearing fluorescent lighting of the room. He feels more disoriented than he usually does, flashes of memories that have no timeline register in the back of his mind, but the memories are of nothing more than white ceilings that look like the one above him now, only different. 

The feeling is familiar in an unsettling way. He only recognizes it from his close brushes with death in the past, when he’s been in too much pain to function so Five would give him the heavy drugs to keep him mellowed out. 

A dull throb in his wrist draws his attention to the appendage. It’s wrapped snugly in an ace bandage and his hand is mummified in gauze. It all comes back to him then, the mirror, the blood, the meltdown. 

But the room he’s in now is pristine, no traces of blood left behind on the floor or walls. It’d be enough to make him doubt that the whole ordeal had happened if it weren’t for his now very fucked up hand. 

Billy stumbles out of bed, light headed from either the drugs or a lack of nutrients, or maybe even a combination of both. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t really care. “These nuts really drugged me up just to clean up my fuckin’ mess, huh.” 

He retraces his steps from the previous day, going into the bathroom and checking the mirror. He notes his appearance is tidied up from what he’d last seen and he tries not to shake out of his skin at the thought of these freaks cleaning him up. They’d probably done it on day one as well. 

As horrifying and freaky as his situation is, Billy can’t help but use recent events to his advantage. He’s learning how these people operate, and maybe if he pays enough attention to how things work around here, he can use that against them. They wait until he’s asleep to clean up after him, and they don’t seem to care if he’s hurting himself. So they want to keep him alive if they can, but maybe it’s not that important to them? 

Good to know he has a last ditch way out. 

Billy grimaces at his reflection in the mirror. “Yeah, let’s not try that one just yet.” He nods, and his reflection agrees with him.

Besides, even if the Ghosts have given up on him, he hasn’t given up on them. He’ll make it out of here and back to them. Their team can’t lose people as quickly as they have been, contrary to One’s belief. They’ll fall apart like that, nothing will ever get done. They need to take care of each other. Help each other. 

God he wishes someone would help him. 

“C’mon pussy, no fuckin’ use in crying over it now.” He knows no one’s coming, he _knows_ , so he has to figure a way out himself. 

Game face on, Billy gets to work. He’s not sure if he’s in the same room as before anymore. They could’ve moved him to a new one, or just cleaned it up and stuffed him back in while he was high off his arse on whatever they had him on. So, to cover all his bases, he makes sure to check over every inch of the room like he did his first day in. He runs his hand over the walls, checking every inch up to the ceiling and down to the floor. He finds the food door, the bathroom, he rechecks everything off the list in there as well; toilet, bathtub, sink, hole in the wall for disposal… wait. 

His fingers find another thin crack in the wall, mirroring the door on the other side of the bathroom. He pushes on the newly discovered door as hard as he can, but it doesn’t budge. He fits his fingernails into the cracks and pulls until he thinks his nails might give out, but nothing happens. 

He’s getting really used to being disappointed. 

It still pisses him off to no fucking end, though. Nothing he tries works. In any other situation, there’s always an out. A guy comes in to deliver food that can be taken out and his keys stolen, a crack in a wall becomes a hole that becomes a way out, something like that. But here and now? All Billy has is the bare necessities. And a fucking bathtub for some stupid reason. 

If this were a cartoon- well it’d be a really shitty, morbid cartoon. But more importantly, if it were a cartoon, a lightbulb would visibly flicker on above Billy’s head, because he’s got a fucking idea. 

It’s not a _good_ idea, but it’s worth a fucking shot. He takes off his shirt, using it to plug up the drain and the overflow before turning on the faucet grinning as the water starts to fill up the basin. Then he turns to the tub, plugging the drain and turning on the water, setting his plan into motion. It’s really a fucking stupid plan. At most it’ll make someone have to clean up his mess again, but maybe, just _maybe_ if he stays awake this time, he can catch them. 

The water continues to silently fill up the tub and the sink, and god it just pisses Billy off to no end that he can’t even hear his plan come to fruition. It finally clicks with Billy then, why they went with the bathtub. Because they could tailor the shape of the bowl to make sure the water doesn’t make any _fucking_ noise when it touches down. These sick fucks had a lot of time on their hands and only one goal in mind. To drive him fucking insane. 

“Well, it ain’t gonna fuckin’ work.” Billy’s thoughts bubble to the surface, spilling out of his mouth without him even realizing it at this point. It’s partially an attempt to fill the silence and partially an attempt to have someone answer him back. Neither really works. 

It’s gonna take a long fucking time for the water to do any real damage, Billy knows this, and it’ll take even longer if he just sits there staring at it, so he gets up and kills time the only way he knows how: pacing like a madman. 

He wanders from corner to corner of the main room, mumbling any thought that comes to himself out loud, tapping at his sides with his fingers, and just generally acting like he’s fucking lost it for an undiscernable amount of time. It’s not like he can really do anything else to pass the minutes, though. The silence is overbearing at the best of times, making him incapable of doing anything but count the seconds down until his heart finally fails him. So he makes do with what he’s got, and right now all that he’s got is a mouth and a functioning pair of legs, so he paces and counts and mutters and hums until he notices a plate of plain white rice sitting on the ground. 

Berating himself internally, because _how could he have fucking missed them delivering that,_ Billy picks up the plate, noting that if it’s been long enough that they snuck him food, then maybe he should check on the bathroom situation. 

After setting the plate down on his bed, four takes a peek into the bathroom to check on the progress, double taking at what he sees. Nothing. Not a drip of water in sight. Just a fucking soggy as shit t-shirt sitting in the sink and the bathtub drained of all water. Not even a sign of any dampness on the floor, and for a moment Billy questions if he actually even turned the faucets on. 

So he does it again. And this time, he sits at the tub’s side, watching intently as it fills up and splashing his hand in the warm water idly. It feels nice to have some kind of stimuli on his skin, the sound of the quiet splashing is pleasing to hear as well, and he considers maybe actually using the provided plumming in the bathroom in the future before he remembers that there won’t be a fucking future because he’s _escaping_ dammit. 

He’s not sure how much time passes as he stares at the steadily rising waterline, but enough goes by that it starts to approach the top of the tub, and Billy feels his heart rate increase with excitement as it grows closer and closer to spilling over. 

Then it stops. 

Blinking dumbly, Billy looks to the no longer running faucet, then back to the pool of water in the tub, then back to the faucet. He leans forward, turning the faucet back on. Nothing. No water. He flicks it off, then back on again. Still nothing. 

A strange, ugly laugh bubbles up out of Billy’s throat before he can stop it. Nothing’s funny, really, but god if it isn’t hilarious. He slams a flat hand onto the still pool of water beside him, sending tidal waves of water throughout the bathroom and soaking his pants and hair. “For fuck’s sake! You fuckers won’t let me have anything will you? Can’t so much as let me bleed in peace, make me conserve water, what’s next? Gonna crack down on how much I piss?” 

He’s fucking pissed. He wants to break something, hit someone, _hurt_ someone. But he’s alone, and the fucking plate his food on is fucking paper. His mirror is goddamn bullet proof. He finds himself angrily pulling at his hair, eyes searching uselessly around the room for something to take his frustration out on, but there’s nothing. Just white. Long, endless expanses of white. White walls that warp and fall away into a white void that goes on for eternity, leaving Billy in the center of a white hell all by himself. Trapped. Alone. 

He screams. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl i legit just forgot to upload on time sorry yall


	6. Whiplash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i think we all know by now that my summaries are bullshit enjoy the shitshow

Billy startles awake like someone just slapped him across the face, shooting up in bed and glancing frantically around, trying to identify what it was that woke him up so abruptly when he hears it again. The sound is far away, but Billy hears the gunshots clear as day. They’re randomly timed at first, with seconds long gaps between shots, but as time passes the shots get more and more frequent until they’re matching the frantic beating of Billy’s heart. 

Something’s happening, something either really, really good or really, really fucking bad. Billy’s stomach sinks, twisting around itself and knotting up while his stupid, delusional heart soars at the possibility that maybe, just maybe his team really was looking for him all this time. 

The gunshots draw nearer and nearer until they overshadow the pounding of blood in Billy’s ears, and he can hear frantic shouting and familiar voices and they came for him ohmyfuckinggod they actually did it. They really came for him. 

He nearly falls face first on the floor as he wildly rips himself out of bed, neck straining as he searches the room to no avail for anything he can use for protection in case someone from the wrong side comes through his door first. He has nothing, not unless he wants to snuggle the baddies to death with some white blankets. 

So he opts for the element of surprise, hiding with his back flat to the wall next to the door and hopes that it’s not an obvious move, even though he knows it is. 

His heart is going haywire inside his chest, making it hard for him to school his breaths into any kind of decent rhythm to help keep him concealed in his shitty hiding spot. 

The worst part is that the door is silent. He knows the door is silent because nothing in this god forsaken hell hole makes a single goddamn noise. There’s no way of knowing when someone is coming in until Billy already sees them. 

He can feel his muscles winding tighter and tighter with each passing moment, like a guitar string being over-tuned. He’s all but ready to fucking snap by the time he’s face to back with a random person, and he doesn’t even think before he jumps into action, attacking with all the force he has. 

He manages to pin the fucker down face first, a knee firmly planted on their spine and his forearm pressed into the back of their neck. Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t weigh much anymore, and it’s all too easy for his target to throw him off, reversing their positions and pinning him down with no more than a firm hand planted onto his sternum. 

“Holy shit. One?” Billy can’t believe his eyes. Literally. He knows better than to take what he sees at face value after spending however many days in a white box, praying to be saved. 

“You fucking done yet, kid? I’m trying to save your ass here.” And yeah, that’s One. 

More gunshots ring out behind them, and Billy can’t stop himself from flinching at the sudden sound now that there’s no poorly soundproofed wall to buffer the piercing noise. Any hopes he has of One not noticing his display of weakness are thrown out the window the moment he sees the older man’s face soften, annoyance fading into something that looks an awful lot like genuine concern, a look that Billy’s not sure he’s ever even seen on One’s face before. Not even on the Yacht in Turgistan. 

“C’mon, kid, let’s get you the hell out of here.” One stands up, offering Billy a hand, and for a moment he has the worst deja vu. He takes the hand, letting One pull him up and wrap a protective arm around his shoulders. 

For the first time in- god Billy needs to stop trying to measure things with units of time- he feels safe. Protected. 

Which is really fucking ironic considering the fact that One is leading him directly into the line of fire. 

More shots ring out. People shouting, voices responding frantically before being cut off abruptly by more gunshots. It’s a horrific assault on Billy’s senses, and he’s almost glad that the halls of the building are the same glaring white as the room he was being kept in, just for the fact that it’s one less thing to overwhelm him with. He hears One speak into the comms, but his mind is too busy focusing on seventeen things at once for him to understand what’s being said. 

He clings to One’s shirt like a lost child as he’s led through a maze of halls that he can’t really believe were just outside his prison this entire time. He was beginning to think that he was being kept in a concrete box underground or something, honestly. But they pass by windows and Billy sees the sun and clouds and _colors_ and his knees almost give out on him, because in that moment he finally lets himself believe that this is real, that this is happening. He’s going to get out. They came for him, he’s safe. 

The only thing keeping him upright anymore is a combination of One’s arm around him and his desperation to see the other ghosts, if it weren’t for the possibility of seeing them again any second, Billy’s pretty sure he would’ve collapsed into a puddle of goo the moment he stepped out of the door to his cell. 

His legs actually do give up on him when he sees Amelia. She’s rushing over to meet them, separate from the group and Billy can only assume that she’s who One was talking to on the comms earlier. She frantically reaches forward to stop his face first descent into the tiled floor beneath them, easily catching his shoulders and pushing him back so that he’s resting on his knees. “Holy shit. You’re- you’re… you.” 

“Last I checked, yeah.” Is her instant reply, and Billy would feel stupid if it weren’t for the fact that this is fucking _Amelia_ his teammate who he thought he’d die before seeing again. He’s more than justified in his loss for words. 

“Holy shit.” Is all he says in response, leaning forward to pull her into a desperate hug. 

One breaks them up all too soon, lifting Billy off the ground. “Alright you two, reunion later, escape now. Five, I need you to triage the kid while we’re on the move, think you can do that?” 

“Think I can do that, psh. ¿Quién coño crees que soy?” Amelia is already helping Billy up as she answers, taking more weight than he likes on her slim shoulders as they begin following One down yet another white hallway. 

“I still don’t speak that language.” One snaps back over his shoulder, checking the ammo in his gun before leading the charge, hopefully, back towards the others. “Seven, report.” He snaps into the comms and Billy strains to read One’s mind through the back of his head as the report takes place, but he doesn’t get anything aside from a weird look from Amelia, who snaps her fingers in his face.

“Hey, attention on me, I’m supposed to be asking you questions here, remember?” She sounds annoyed, but looks worried, like maybe he hit his head or something. 

Well, he did. It’s just been treated already. “Yeah, yeah ask away, doc.” 

“Where are you hurt?” She immediately gets down to business, eyeing up the bandage on Billy’s head suspiciously. 

Billy raises his right hand up in response, showing off his gauze and ace bandage cast.” Just my hand and my head, really. And those’ve been taken care of.” 

“Taken care of? What do you mean taken care of?” 

He shakes his wrist at her again. “Seriously? You think I just found this shit lying around. These freaks have been giving me the five star treatment.” 

Amelia’s face twists up in confusion, the same kind that Billy’s been feeling all these days. It doesn’t add up, but honestly at this point, who gives a fuck. They’re on their way out the goddamn door and leaving these freaks to rot. “What kind of five star treatment?”

“Gave me a bed, food, a bathroom, hell, they even sent me a change of clothes and new bandages. Dressed my arm when I went mental and busted my hand up. The only thing wrong with the place was that I couldn’t leave. That and the color scheme.” Billy shrugs. 

“That’s not… Something’s not right about that.” Amelia looks confused and upset, and Billy can relate. God can he fucking relate. 

“No shit. But there’s no point in thinking over it now, really. Right?” 

“Right.” Amelia nods, her grip on him nearly doubling. He doesn’t point it out. 

They fall into silence as they stick close behind One, following him around turns and waiting patiently for him to sweep each corner for possible threats before continuing on. It seems like the team has done a good job at diverting the enemy and taking them out, leaving the halls empty for the three of them to move through. 

The gunshots have all but died out at this point, although every now and then a stray shot will ring out. Billy almost prefered the constant noise to this. Not knowing when he’s going to be blindsided by a deafening bang is far worse than just baring down and dealing with a barrage of them. 

Still. He’s with his team again, and he trusts them to keep him safe. After all, they came back for him again, didn’t they? Even when he doubted them, god he should stop doing that. 

So he puts on a brave face and eventually starts walking on his own again, doing his best to hide his jumps and flinches as they make their way towards the exit. 

After what feels like an eternity the three of them funnel out into a large lobby-esque room that is downright painted in what can only be trademark Ghost handywork. He hears them before he sees them, really. Javi clapping Blaine on the shoulder with some cheesy joke as Camille _audibly_ rolls her eyes. 

“There he is.” Blaine is the first to speak, and then suddenly it hits him all over again that this is happening. That these people are real. That they’re here and they’re here for _him_. 

“I-” He chokes on his own words, his throat closing up in a telltale way that means he’s about to cry like a little bitch. No one calls him on it this time. Javi, the overemotional bastard, even tries to covertly wipe away a few tears of his own. 

One speaks up next, resting a hand on his shoulder to ground him in a way that he desperately fucking needed right about now. “Let’s get you home, Billy.”

And that’s what fucking does it for him. The simple four letter word _home_. It hits him hard and fast in the chest, knocking all the air from him and leaving him gasping as tears streak down his face. All he can do is nod as his team leads him to the doors. 

He’s still crying when he wakes up in a white bed looking at a white ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im the worst pls post all death threats and hate below thank u <3


	7. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if yall thought shit wasnt gonna get way weirder you were all wrong

Billy never gives up. It’s not in his DNA to just throw in the towel, to let whoever took him away from his team have the satisfaction of winning. He never once in his life stopped fighting, clawing his way to victory by whatever means necessary, so no, he doesn’t give up. He just runs out of options. 

He’s tried everything he could think of at least twice, maybe more. Breaking his nails on the cracks in the walls, kicking at the door his food comes through until he’s sure he’s broken or sprained something, filling up his water bottle and whipping it at the light fixtures to see if he can break them. Nothing works, there’s no way out, they’ve thought of everything. He still gets his food at regular (or random) intervals. Changes of clothes show up when he sweats through or gets blood on his own. And if he refuses to sleep, he always mysteriously wakes up clean and well rested with no memory of how he ended up in bed. 

He can’t keep track of the time anymore. Before he could guess approximately that it's been around a week, maybe two, and keep guessing based off of that, but now? Counting out loud can only work for so long before he trips over the numbers, forgetting where he left off. He can’t figure out how long he sleeps for, there’s no windows. He doesn’t know if it's been weeks, months, or years yet, but it feels like it's been centuries to him. 

He’s already losing his mind. 

Sometimes he thinks he sees someone, like maybe the person delivering his food got sloppy and he almost catches them, just at the edge of his vision, but when he turns to talk to them, beg them to let him out, to tell him what they want with him, to fucking _talk to him_ , there’s nothing. 

Maybe there really is someone there, maybe they’re doing it to taunt him, to drive him up the wall even more. He remembers thinking when he got here that he’d rather be tortured than be in this white room, but now he knows the truth. This room is the torture. Every second that ticks by is a small eternity built inside an agonizing silence. If it weren’t for the fact that Billy can hear himself talk, he’d think he lost his hearing long ago. Maybe he did, maybe his voice is just in his head? No one’s around to confirm, so he can only guess at whether or not he’s right. 

He’s learning that he’s shit company for himself. He’s too distracting, makes himself lose chunks of time. He thinks he’s learned the real meaning to sleeping with his eyes open. It’s like in the time it takes to blink, he’s managed to lose hours, maybe even a full day, and the only way he knows that any time has passed is that he’s idly clawed new marks into the pale skin on his arms. 

Sometimes he’ll fall into pits of thoughts that border on hallucinations, striking up conversations with his teammates like they’re really there. He knows they’re not, _god he knows._ But it’s nice to imagine. Even if his mental images aren’t quite right anymore. He can’t remember the exact color of One’s hair, but he knows it’s not as light as he pictures it. They’re always in white clothes because that’s all Billy can see anymore. Everyone is bleached out, like their memories have sat on the windowsill for too long and it fucking _hurts,_ but not as bad as it hurts to not think of them at all. Because if Billy doesn’t have them, he has no one. And he can’t be alone. Not in here, not by himself. 

The rice they send him starts piling up over time, and Billy knows that they’re not suddenly feeling more generous with the feeding times. He covers up the bathroom mirror with an old shirt, refusing to look at his pale skeleton anymore. He can’t remember to eat despite it being the only thing he’s allowed to do in his own personal hell. Sometimes when he forces down a few bites, he has to run to the bathroom to puke it back up, his stomach twisting and rebelling against the idea of another dinner made of white rice and water. It’s been a long time since Billy has even remembered enough to crave anything in particular, but he’d give both his legs to eat a meal made by Blaine again. 

The thought of starving himself starts to sound more and more appealing as the plates pile up, the trash chute in the bathroom never closes anymore. Billy hopes, deep down, that Big Brother finds that to be at least mildly irritating. 

They drug him and shove a feeding tube down his throat. He knows they do because he wakes up with more energy than he’s had in a long, long time. It’s more energy than he can handle, and he doesn’t know what to do now that he’s alert enough that the time doesn’t fall through his fingers like it used to. 

Dissonant humming and biting nails down to the quick can only quell a certain amount of boredom. Anxiety digs its claws deep inside his stomach like it used to when he knew what month it was. He hates it. He hates feeling like he needs to get up, to do something about the situation he’s in. He just wants to melt onto the floor, for the seconds to blur by into eons until he becomes ash and maybe one day an archeologist will rescue his bones from his pristine tomb, because no one managed to do it while he was alive. God knows he can’t save himself. 

Sometimes he screams. It comes out of nowhere, from a place deep and dark and hidden inside himself that he knows nothing about. When it happens, he surprises himself, flinches at the sudden, loud noise. He doesn’t have any control over it, like maybe there’s a part of himself that’s trying to take over, that’s fighting to be heard. He hopes it wins. He’s sick of being in charge. 

* * *

Whenever the man shows up, Billy doesn’t question for a second that he’s real. He knows he’s not. What he does question, though, is why he would dream up a random fucker that he doesn’t remember ever seeing in his life just sitting on his bed and reading Harry Potter instead of someone he cares about like Javi or Amelia or… or Six. 

The man stays for however long, haunting the room as Billy tries desperately to ignore him, and then he gets up and leaves. Billy doesn’t try to follow because _it’snotrealit’snotrealit’snot-_

He gets a cupcake for his next meal. White with white icing and even white sprinkles. There’s a note attached that simply reads ‘Happy anniversary.’ He doesn’t remember what he does next, but he wakes up with bandaged up hands and he’s pretty goddamn sure he never ate the cupcake. 

He’s never had the most healthy coping mechanisms, he’ll be the first to admit that. But he’s sinking to new lows he didn’t even think possible. Hurting himself is just a way to pass the time now, picking his skin is his default, hitting his head against the wall is grounding in a way that he just _needs_ , and his lips are torn up and split from his chewing. Not to mention his fits. He’s sure he’s not worth keeping around at this point, he’s definitely costing these people thousands in medical expenses. He breaks his finger just because watching it heal helps him count the days. They have no meaning, lost in a sea of time that’s unaccounted for, but it feels like he’s doing something, and that’s all the reason he needs to do it a second time. 

His finger is still in a splint when The Man shows up again. Billy had honestly forgotten about him until now. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he last saw The Man. At least one sprained wrist and a broken finger ago. Because that’s how he measures time now, apparently. He half watches, half drifts as The Man takes his spot on Billy’s bed, taking out a book and starting to read. 

Time passes at whatever rate it feels like before The Man suddenly looks up, his eyes locking with Billy’s, and that’s when he makes a horrifying realization. 

This guy is real. Like _really real._ Flesh and bone and paperback novel sitting in front of him, because if he was in Billy’s head his eyes wouldn’t be a shade of green, they’d be a shade of white tinted with green. It’s a fucking stupid way to make a deduction, but Billy’s made all the more sure of himself when The Man speaks. “Would you like me to read to you?” 

And Billy, for the first time in ever, can’t find it in him to make a sound. His throat closes up at the possibility of conversing with another human being in so, so long. He chokes on nothing, barely able to manage a meek nod. 

  
The Man smiles in return, and Billy can tell it’s sinister, because why would this guy be here for a _good_ reason? But desperation wins out in the end and Billy stays seated in his corner as a man he should probably fear reads him the beginning of _The Hobbit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my backlog caught up to me finally and now im uploading as i write, but dont fucking let me stop uploading weekly, hold my dumb ass accountable thank u


	8. Garden of Eden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> billy makes a friend

Time passes in reverse after The Man starts showing up. 

As much as he knows he shouldn’t, Billy finds himself unable to resist eagerly looking forward to the next time The Man will come read to him. He’s desperate to hear a voice that isn’t his own, see something other than plain white walls and his own scarred, nightmarishly skeletal hands. And because he looks forward to the visits, the longer it seems to take between each one. 

At first Billy thought it was all in his head, but he’s getting better at keeping track of time now that he has a system down. Now that he has a reason to do it again. He’s keeping track of how long it takes for his cuts to heal, a few days for the shallow ones, around a week and a half for the deeper ones that he makes when he really spaces out. He guesses it takes around a month before The Man shows up again, holding the same book as last time, dressed in the same white clothes as well. But he has brown hair and green eyes and tan skin and he’s a real human and he’s right there in front of Billy and he’s _sofuckingreal._

The Man starts reading at what Billy assumes is the same spot he left off on the last time he visited, but he can’t really remember anything from that visit beyond shock and horror at the realization that there are still real human beings alive and moving and living lives outside of the white prison cell that he’s been trapped in for however long. 

The Man’s voice is like a ripple in a puddle that’s been stagnant for far too long without ever evaporating, setting thoughts loose like mosquitos in Billy’s mind. The Man’s voice is deep and slow as he reads over the words, it reminds Billy of Blaine, even though Billy can’t really remember what Blain’s voice actually sounds like anymore. He can’t keep his mind present, drifting on the waves caused by The Man’s voice, unable to hold on to the minutes as they pass through his fingers and slip away into the void where so much of his time has disappeared to over the ~~_daysweeksmonths_ ~~.

The visit is over too soon. Some distant part of Billy, a small section of his mind that still clings to some form of reason is aware that it’s been hours if the amount of pages they’ve gone through is anything to go by as The Man tucks a bookmark about three quarters of the way into the book. But that part of Billy is overshadowed by desperation to not be alone anymore, to not be trapped with his thoughts for another month or however long they leave him this time. What if this is the last visit? What if after this he’s left alone with nothing but white walls and his own thoughts to torture him until he finally finds a way to fucking end it all in this ~~baby~~ Billy-proof hell. 

Uselessly, Billy reaches out a hand towards The Man’s retreating back, his voice hoarse and broken as he speaks begs, “Wait.” 

Shockingly, he does. The Man pauses mid-step, then turns to look at Billy, really _look_ at him, like he’s dissecting a frog in biology class but with his fucking eyes. “What’s your name, son?” 

That small, insignificant part of Billy’s brain that knows better screams at him not to answer, that this is one of those things that no one is supposed to know about him. He’s dead, One would be so fucking pissed if he found out that Billy told. But Billy’s never going to see One again, is he? Billy’s double dead. Dead times two. And he just can’t find it in himself to find a reason to _not_ answer. So he does. “Billy. ‘S Billy.” 

The Man smiles at Billy, and even though Billy has no reason to, he feels like he’s just done something horrible. Like he’s given away nuclear launch codes. But even before Billy died the first time, he wasn’t really important. He was a thief. A criminal. The only people that wanted him were cops, and pigs wouldn’t keep him in a white box and force feed him and read him _The Hobbit_. Still, the smile is something unsettling. Wicked. Wrong. And Billy knows enough to be scared when The Man speaks again. “Hello Billy, you can call me Abel.” 

* * *

Some kind of guilt that Billy can place but doesn’t want to eats away at him for a long time after Abel leaves. He knows he fucked up, he knows he knows he knows, and he just wants to know how the fuck it’s going to be used against him. He’s used to the white walls by now. It’s hell and he prays for death every day, but at least he knows what to expect. 

Now, though? Now Billy stares at the cracks in the wall where he knows there’s supposed to be a door, waiting for something, anything to happen. He doesn’t know what they could do with his name, though. It’s just his first name, not even his full name. There’s a lot of Billy’s. Thousands. Maybe millions. Fuck if he knows. But these fuckers are good with mind games, obviously. They’ve done more with less. So much more with less. They’ve pushed Billy beyond the brink with a goddamn paint job for fuck’s sake. 

Time moves so much slower now that he’s afraid, always looking over his shoulder. He’s starting to realize that he misses slipping into trances that would pass away hours and hours and hours, because now he’s glued to the present, just waiting. Measuring time is harder whenever it feels like seconds take hours and hours are years. Millenia happen in the span of a day and Billy misses when he could just break his fucking finger and fall asleep, knowing it’s been a month when it’s healed. Now he’s present for every fucking day after his stupid fucking decision to slam his fucking wrist in the door just for something to do. Fully present in the pain, counting the seconds by the pulse he feels in the throbbing injury. He’s not sure if it’s broken or what, but he’s definitely not allowed to move it if the cast he’s in is anything to go by. 

He’d fucking kill for a marker to doodle on it with. 

Instead he passes time in the only way he knows how anymore, talking to ghosts. Hallucinations. Whatever they are, they’re his only company. He’s insane. Certifiable. He knows it. At this point, even if he got out of here, he’s not sure how he’d even function in the real world again. The Ghosts wouldn’t want him back for sure, and he’s double dead at this point. The only place for him is a white room in an asylum. For all he knows, that’s where he already is, sans straight jacket. They should probably get him one. He keeps hurting himself. 

His wrist is healed as much as it probably will ever be whenever Abel returns, and as much as Billy hates to admit it, he’s relieved to see the son of a bitch again. 

There’s no fanfare, no conversation, no torture, or evil surprise of any kind. Abel just does what he’s done the last two times he’s visited Billy. He reads. 

The book is finished all too soon, and Abel doesn’t seem like he’s going to pull the next one out of his pocket to continue, instead standing up like he’s about to leave. He didn’t stay nearly long enough, not even half as long as last time and Billy knows this because he can fucking count the pages of the book and there’s never as many in the last quarter because of all the blank ones in the end and he can’t be left alone again, he doesn’t know if he can survive another month. 

He must look as desperate as he feels, because Abel has that wicked, smug look on his face again, like he knows he’s getting his way just like last time, and Billy feels scared all over again, suddenly remembering that he shouldn’t really like this guy all that much. “I was thinking, Billy.” Billy tries not to flinch at the sound of his own name in a stranger’s mouth. “I could start coming more frequently to read to you, if you’d like.” 

And yes, god yes, Billy would actually really like that, because he’s broken and alone and scared and he doesn’t know where he is or how long he’s been here and at this point he’d take a fucking weekly beating if it meant having company. His voice fails him, and all he can do is nod, his movements jerky and borderline frantic. 

Abel’s smile reaches peak smug, and he leans forward, like he’s about to tell Billy a fucking secret. “I _could_ , if you could just do me one little favor and answer one more question for me.” 

Billy doesn’t have to be sane to know that this is going somewhere fucking awful really fast. His stomach twists up in knots as his head bobs up and down without his permission. 

“Good, good.” Abel nods, the motion matching the rhythm of Billy’s own nervous head-bobbing that he can’t seem to get back under control. “It’s not a hard question, nothing too big, I swear. I just need to know- The… Organization you were with, you wouldn’t happen to have an address or maybe the coordinates of where their main operation is located, would you?” 

Abel, is a fucking liar. That is big, that’s so fucking big. Even Billy in all of his fucked sideways, mentally unstable glory knows how big that is. His name is one thing, an address that could give away his team? Who fucking cares that they never found him, maybe they never even went looking for him, but they don’t deserve whatever this fucking creepy, smug motherfucker wants with them. They’re good people. They want to change the world, and this freak of nature is fucked if he thinks that Billy is dumb enough to get in the way of that. He’d sooner die. Honestly, at this point he’d sooner die than do most things. So, he lies through his fucking teeth. “I-I, uh. I don’t remember.” 

Abel knows it’s a lie. Billy knows it’s a lie. They both fucking know it’s a lie. Abel doesn’t stop smiling, and that’s probably the worst fucking part of it all as the smug motherfucker nods once again. “That’s unfortunate.” The ‘for you’ tacked on at the end is silent, but Billy still hears it all the same. 

Abel turns and leaves, and Billy, for the first time in a long time, is actually tempted to get up and try to follow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear i know i tagged this fic as hurt/comfort but yall know that saying about blah blah darkest before the dawn blah blah


	9. Trepidation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just say no kids

Time is a bitch. A ruthless, unforgiving, probably homophobic, evil, conniving, bitch that has it out for Billy and specifically Billy for whatever goddamn reason. Everything somehow moves even slower after Abel leaves this time, because Billy really  _ really _ fucked up now, and he knows it. All he can do now is sit in the corner, rocking back and forth as he chews on his fingers where his nails used to be before he chewed them down to the nub and wait for… something. Anything. Probably some kind of punishment for not answering the question like he knows he should have. 

Why didn’t he just answer the fucking question? 

It’s not like any of the others would have done the same for him. That’s wrong, no he knows that’s wrong, isn’t it? Maybe not for One, One always was big on the whole ‘every man for himself’ thing. But One  _ did  _ go back for Billy in Turgistan. Clearly regretted it, though. Maybe everyone did. Maybe that’s why no one’s here for him now.

What if they never even looked for him? What if they never even cared? What if they  _ know  _ he’s alive, but they just aren’t doing anything, because he’s such a fucking liability at this point? 

He can’t really blame them, though. He  _ is  _ a fucking liability. Can’t shake a tail in Hong Kong, can’t find his way off a fucking boat, can’t do anything without almost dying, apparently. Maybe he deserves this? Maybe this is his fault. 

But Javi almost got them all fucking killed in Hong Kong because he was huffing laughing gas and no one left him for dead. One nearly fucked all of Turgistan because he dropped his fucking phone. Billy’s never even seen Amelia use a fucking  _ gun _ and they take her on missions and no one calls her a liability. 

Fuck them, honestly. Fuck all of them. 

Goddamn he misses them so fucking much it hurts.

It’s like they’re the ones that are all dead and not him at this point. He can’t remember half of their faces, only a weird approximation of what they might’ve looked like, and he knows he’s definitely wrong. They’re not even real people anymore, just memories. 

And maybe that’s why, whenever Abel comes back so many  _ daysyearsdecades _ later, Billy answers his question. Because Abel had been gone for so much longer than the last time, and time had moved so slow that it felt like a hundred times longer even though it was only maybe triple the usual amount of time by Billy’s fucked up count. But it had been long enough to get the point across. If Billy doesn’t comply, he’ll be alone again. So Billy sits and listens to Abel read, and when Abel stands to leave, Billy doesn’t even wait for the question, he just spits out the coordinates without giving himself time to think twice. Because if he lets himself think about it, he won't let himself do it, he won’t answer because deep down he  _ knows _ he shouldn’t. But he can’t fucking take it anymore. He just doesn’t want to be alone. 

Abel’s smile only adds to the pool of dread settling in Billy’s stomach, and he knows immediately that he’s fucked up. He wishes so fucking badly to be able to just reach out and grab his words out of the air and take them back from Abel, but the son of a bitch is already leaving, and Billy is weak and tired and too fucking pathetic to even get himself off the fucking floor before the guy is out of the room. 

And Billy is once again, alone. 

The dread in his stomach quickly morphs into panic, anxiety turning to iron in his chest and weighing down his lungs and he’s drowning, holy shit  _ he’s fucking drowning. _ Why did he do that? He gave away his friends, his family, the only people he has left in this fucking world, the only fucking memories he had to hold on to and he fucking sold them out because of a fucking stint of paranoia. 

He screams at the ceiling for the first time in a long time. He’d given up on that pretty much after the first three days of being trapped in this hell, but now he’s praying that anyone will hear him begging to spare his friends and just finally fucking kill him instead. 

He knows someone is listening. 

He also knows that they don’t fucking care. 

* * *

At some point Billy must either pass out or hurt himself enough that someone makes him pass out, because he wakes up in his bed with fresh bandages on his arms from injuries he doesn’t remember causing himself. He doesn’t bother dragging himself out of the confines of the sheets, instead staring blankly at the white wall across the room from him, tracing the outline where he knows the door is with his eyes, waiting. He doesn’t have the energy to do much else. 

He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, really. He never does. He knows Abel said he’d come by more often to read, but that could mean anything considering how infrequently he had been stopping in. Plus, that was only on the table the last time he asked, Billy didn’t even wait for a goddamn deal before spitting out the Ghosts’ location this time. 

It could be another month, hell maybe half a year before Abel returns. Maybe he won’t return ever again. 

Billy had hoped that maybe now that Abel got what he wanted that Billy would be allowed to just die, but Big Brother still seems hellbent on keeping him alive if the bandages on his arms are anything to go by. 

It’s somehow even more of a miserable existence than before, knowing that he’s done something to fuck over his friends and not even know what the hell is going to happen to them let alone be able to do anything to stop it. All he can do is lay in bed and just fucking wait. 

It’s like Billy’s entire life is just fucking waiting anymore. Waiting for food, waiting for Abel, waiting for death. He can’t stand it, he wants to give up. He wants to so badly, but he’s not allowed to, there’s no possible way for him to just fucking die already. And god, he’s tried. All he wants is to fucking die. 

The only bright side to sliding even deeper into the pit of insanity is that time seems to be slipping away again, and Billy never thought he’d be so thankful for something so nightmarish. He doesn’t remember falling asleep or waking up, sometimes he’ll suddenly be on the other side of the room and not know how he got there. It’s the kind of existence that makes people believe in demonic possession. Billy knows better though, because if he was possessed, he’d be more than happy to give up total control. No one’s asked for it yet, though, so he’s pretty sure he’s still the sorry dickbag at the wheel. He’s just driving drunk. And probably also high.

He doesn’t even try to count the days anymore, he still manages to hurt himself, but it’s all absent-minded or by sheer accident, and he never really pays any mind to when the injuries show up or go away. He eats sometimes, but forgets to more often than not. He talks to the walls and they don’t answer, but he pretends they do anyway, he apologizes to the versions of his friends that he has in his head and they don’t forgive him, because he doesn’t even forgive himself. 

Then, Abel comes back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda short chapter sorry guys but hey at least some stuff may or may not be happening


	10. Fed Ex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i lied about this whole fic being in billys pov. heres a chapter as told by one

They get a package. 

They get. A fucking. Package. 

The ghosts. Get a package. To their secret hideout. Mail arrives. No one notices a delivery person arriving or departing. 

One finds it on the front step of his trailer. An unmarked, plain cardboard box, wide and flat. No return address. It’s cause for an immediate emergency meeting between all Ghosts. One sends out a an urgent message for them all to meet him outside his trailer, because there’s no way in hell he’s gonna just pick up and move that fucking thing without being one hundred percent sure it’s not a bomb. 

It’s not long before Camille arrives, punctual as ever as she drags Javi along with her, the two still annoyingly attatched at the fucking hip. Probably more so than ever at this point, honestly. Amelia and Blaine show up next, Blaine still wearing an apron from his now abandoned breakfast preparations and Amelia clinging to a very large travel mug of coffee that she must’ve been filling up in the communal kitchen. That just leaves-

“Why are we all pissing around on a stoop when we have a perfectly good conference room inside?” 

“Eight,” One nods to the most recent addition to their group as she crosses her arms and joins the circle they’ve all formed around him, clearly unimpressed with the impromptu meeting. She’s not in her pajamas, so it’s not like One fucking woke her up with the alert, in fact she’s in athletic wear, brown hair tied up in a ponytail tight enough that it could possibly explain the pinched expression on her face if not for the fact that One knows she suffers from perpetual resting bitch face. “Good to see you chipper as ever on this lovely Thursday morning. We got mail.” 

“Okay, who Amazon Primed an order to our top secret vigilante hideout?” Blaine speaks up, eyeing up the plaine box on the ground. 

Despite the obvious rhetorical nature of the question, everyone in the group mumbles out an answer in the negative, denying their part in the box’s mysterious arrival. “So none of you put it here, which means it’s either a bomb, or something really fucking important,” One concludes, obviously leaning towards the bomb answer since he’s still not moving to pick the package. 

“If it was a bomb it’d have gone off already, don't you think?” Eight interjects, and well, she has a point. If someone wanted the Ghosts to fall apart, all they’d have to do is kill One, and if someone wanted One dead, they didn’t have to wait for him to wake up and walk outside to do it. An explosive as large as the box sitting in front of them is more than big enough that One would’ve long since been a fucking smudge on the ground if that’s what was actually inside the package. 

“Fair point.” One hesitates for another moment before finally leaning forward and gingerly lifting the box just a few inches off the ground. When it doesn’t immediately incinerate everything in a fifty mile radius, he gains enough confidence to pick it up the rest of the way, still holding it out in front of himself like it might, well, explode. “Let’s open this puppy up then.” 

Everyone simultaneously takes a large step back from him. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Eight rolls her eyes, stepping forward and grabbing the box from One’s hands. Ever one to jump on the grenade, she rips open the cardboard to finally reveal the contents. 

Inside the box rests an unassuming Dell laptop and what is probably it’s matching charger. 

“That was anticlimactic,” Amelia speaks up before taking a long sip of her coffee.

“Yeah can we go now?” Javi is the next to speak, already turning to leave.

Camille reaches out and catches Javi’s arm to stop his untimely departure, rolling her eyes. “We still don’t know what’s on the laptop yet.” 

“But who knows how long it’ll take to find out, I’m with Javi,” Blaine shrugs, nodding in the aforementioned Ghost’s direction. “We should clear out and give the genius billionaire playboy room to work.” 

“Hey guys,” One cuts in, balancing the now open laptop in one hand and prodding at a few keys with his free one. “I think I already found what I was supposed to on here.” 

The Ghosts cease their arguing, instead gathering behind One to see what’s on the screen. It’s either a picture or a live video feed of an empty room. “This feed was live on startup, nothing I do changes it. Unless I just turn the damn thing off.” 

Blaine leans forward, glaring at the screen like it screwed him out of his breakfast (it did). “How are you sure it’s a live feed?” 

“Because it’s recording us too.” Sure enough, One clicks a few things on screen and pulls up a window showing their own faces staring back at them as they all watch the live footage of the empty room. 

Javi ducks out of view of the camera and Blaine gives One a questioning look, obviously curious as to why he’s not more freaked out by this. Eight cuts in with an answer before One can, “Guys, come on,” she pulls Javi back upright, “These pricks have already been on our base snooping around enough to know which trailer belongs to our fearless leader. Not only do they probably already know what we look like, but they also know where we live. Not much we can do to hide from them now.” 

“So what do we do now?” Javi asks, and on cue everyone turns to look at One, waiting for an answer. 

“Now we wait until whoever’s on the other end of this feels like talking.” 

* * *

They decide to keep the laptop in One’s trailer, not wanting to risk giving whoever’s on the other end a personal tour of any buildings they didn’t find on their own already when they were delivering the laptop. Since it’s a tight fit in such a small space, they break into groups of two to take turns keeping an eye on the feed; Javi and Camille, Blaine and Amelia, One and Eight. 

One and Eight are up first, crowding around One’s desk while they stare at the screen waiting for something, anything at all to happen. 

They don’t have to wait long. 

One and Eight are in the middle of an argument over who should go get snacks while they’re stuck waiting whenever an abhorrent banging noise sounds over the laptop’s speakers, loud enough to startle a colorful string of curses from Eight’s mouth in shock. “Fucking hell, do you have it turned up loud enough there, asshole?” 

“I don’t have control over the volume, chief.” One shoots back, attention now drawn to the screen in anticipation as the laptop spits out a few more strange clanging and scraping sounds. 

There’s another loud bang, and then a brief moment of silence before a deep voice with a slight unidentifiable lilt to it speaks up. “Ah, we have an audience. Good. One, is it? And I haven’t seen this one before. Always glad to see a fresh face.” A plain looking man with brown hair and green eyes steps in front of the camera, one arm going somewhere off screen while the other is clasped behind his back. “I’m sure you’re wondering who I am and what I want and all that fun stuff, so I’ll just cut right to the chase here. My name is Abel. What’s yours?” 

“I feel like if you know where I sleep you probably also know the answer to that question already.” One retorts, glaring at the laptop like if he tries hard enough he can force choke this Abel son of a bitch through the screen. 

Abel doesn’t look too impressed with One’s attempt at banter. “Let’s try this again.” With one jerky motion, Abel reveals his trump card right off the bat. He disappears off screen for a brief moment, returning again with a hostage. Some scrawny pale kid that’s just familiar enough that One feels his stomach do some kind of wicked gymnastics he doesn’t remember teaching it. In one swift motion, Abel fists a hand in the kid’s hair, forcing him to look up at the camera through dazed, half-lidded eyes and One feels his heart drop out of his fucking ass and onto the goddamn floor. “Tell me your name.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this eight is an oc, but not mine. shes a beautifully complex and well grounded character with her own story written by my good friend carbonmonoxidepoisoning and if youd like to read it you can find it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22354894/chapters/53405269


	11. Cliche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> everybody hates abel

There’s a moment of tense, horrifying silence where One is pretty sure time itself is frozen and he’s trapped inside this soul shattering moment of realization for all eternity, and then Abel, the motherfucker, has the audacity to laugh.  _ To laugh _ . Like he’s not holding One’s dead  ~~ son  ~~ teammate up by the scalp. Like Billy isn’t clearly too fucking out of it to even know where he is let alone that One is watching him. “We’ll give you some time to think on it, won’t we, Billy?” 

The sound of Billy’s name coming from that sick fucker’s mouth is like nails on a chalkboard; all kinds of wrong and sickening as it sends a full body tremor through One’s skin. Billy strains in response, barely able to shake his head in Abel’s grasp, and One feels both sick and proud at the same time, but mostly he just feels horrified. Despite the aggressive volume of the laptop speakers, One only just barely hears Billy’s rasped out ‘no’ before the screen goes black. 

One can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the screen even after the feed cuts out, glaring at it like he might be able to bring Billy back if he stares hard enough. Eight shifts in the corner of his vision, clearly unsure of what to make of the situation. “So who was-”

“Go get the others.” He cuts her off, knowing full well what the question was going to be as well as the fact that he can’t stomach giving the answer right now. Guilt is already eating One alive without him forcing himself to admit out loud that he left Billy to be caught and tortured by that Abel motherfucker, not even bothering to look for the kid and instead just replacing him almost immediately. Besides, Eight’s smart. She can figure it out herself. 

“But you-”

“ _ Now _ , Eight. That’s a goddamn order.” One cuts her off again, audibly desperate and unable to care. He just needs a minute. Just one minute to figure out how the fuck he’s supposed to live with himself after what he just saw, and how he can keep it from getting any worse. 

Thankfully, Eight either catches on to how frantic One sounds, or she’s (by some fucking miracle) just not in the mood to fight for once. Either way, she stands, leaving One alone in the trailer with his thoughts. 

So, Billy is alive. Objectively that’s good. Great, even. But that also means that there’s months of unaccounted for time that Billy’s been out in the fucking wild and One had slept soundly at night none the wiser. Well, that’s not entirely true. It took him a long time to get over the guilt of leaving Billy for dead on that mission. Even if he almost immediately replaced the kid. 

The Ghosts had a hard time accepting Eight considering the events that led up to her integration into the team. They definitely resented One for bringing her on so quickly. Maybe that’s why he did it. Just for the sake of being hated as much as he felt he deserved. 

And still it clearly wasn’t nearly as much as what he actually deserved. Because despite him being so sure of himself that Billy wouldn’t survive that first night he went missing, the kid is still visibly kicking. If One had just let the team go back for him. But no, he clung to his stupid ideals of ‘every man for himself,’ even after the events on the Yacht. He regressed back to treating his  ~~ family  ~~ team like pawns, using the guise of keeping the others safe to keep them from going back for the kid and ruining the mission. 

The door to the trailer swings open, startling One from his thoughts. One by one, members of the team file in, squeezing into the cramped space and looking at One expectantly for some kind of explanation, like he can even think well enough to form a fucking sentence right now. 

The silence must tick on for a second too long, because Eight steps in as de facto leader, giving the debriefing while One continues to wrestle with his conscience. “It’s some kind of hostage negotiation. The guy on the other end has some kid as leverage and is using him to get something out of us, although he hasn’t specified what it is yet. Just asked for One’s name so far.” 

“So if he’s only interested in One so far, why are the rest of us here?” Camille speaks up, and the rest of the group mumbles in agreement. 

One takes a deep, shuddering breath, like he’s bracing himself for the impact of the information he’s about to drop even though he already knows it. “It’s Four. The hostage. It’s Billy.” 

Everyone falls dead silent, and One swears he feels the temperature in the trailer drop. The Ghosts’ expressions are a mixture of shock and barely concealed rage, save for Eight who really just looks like she’s finally piecing the puzzle all together. The tension continually builds in silence for a few seconds until One is sure someone’s either going to shoot him or start crying, but before either can happen, the laptop flickers back to life with the sound of a man impatiently clearing his throat. 

“Sorry to have kept you waiting, but I figured it was best to set up ahead of time for your inevitable refusal to comply.” One hates the sound of this asshole’s borderline monotone voice, and it takes an indefinite amount of restraint to not put his fist through the monitor as soon as he turns around, even more so when he catches sight of the fucking snuff film on display before him. 

Abel has Billy tied to a chair, arms behind his back and ankles bound to the legs of it. Billy can’t seem to keep his eyes fixed on the camera, instead looking around the room frantically, using what little slack his restraints give him to rock back and forth in his seat. Abel stands directly behind Billy, carding a hand through his grown-out hair, ignoring Billy’s panicky behavior in favor of fixing his eyes on the camera like he’s making direct eye contact with One. “I don’t like repeating myself, and we both know you remember my question.” 

This is the part where One says the answer, where he gives up his name and, by association, his family, putting them in the line of fire of god knows what. 

But he has to. He knows he does. He can’t let Billy down again. Not after he let the kid down every day since he refused to let the Ghosts go back for him on the day he went missing. That’s too long. Too much disappointment. Too much hurt. He can’t ever hope to make it up to the kid, but he can at least put a stop to this. He can keep Ariana safe, but this sick fuck already has Billy. Has had Billy for too fucking long. 

“No.” 

For a moment, One thinks that maybe he accidentally refused to answer. That despite his brain making a decision, his mouth went and made another. But on screen he sees Billy, frail and broken and so fucking determined staring directly into the camera and into One’s soul. Again, he repeats himself, ducking his head away from Abel’s touch. “No. Don’t tell this asshole shit, One. He’s a liar and whatever he says he’ll do if you give him what he wants, he’ll do the opposite.” 

This is the part where One ignores Billy and tells Abel what he wants to know, because One knows how this shit goes. The kid’s gotten himself in the shit either way, but at the very least One might be able to smooth things over enough to keep him alive until the Ghosts can figure out how to trace the signal, or Abel lets his location slip somehow, or something. “You heard the kid.” Is what he says instead, because he’s a fucking idiot and it’s impossible  _ not _ to listen to Billy when his eyes are so desperate and so angry and so fucking  _ trusting. _

He regrets it immediately when Abel laughs, fisting a hand in Billy’s hair. “I was hoping you’d say that.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so sorry for any grammar and spelling errors i finished writing this the day it was uploaded and didnt have time to have it betad 
> 
> also i start grooming school this week and idk how busy ill be but ill do my best to keep the updates coming as regularly as i can. no guarantees but i swear i wont stop until this story is completed


End file.
